


Match for the Keyhole

by Linden



Series: Seven Devils [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Little Bit of Horror, Couch Cuddles, M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is twelve and a half years old, good with guns, better with knives, and more than capable of getting himself to and from a bus stop every day.  John will leave him on his own if he has to.</p><p>Neither Dean, nor Azazel, ever will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title hails from Iron and Wine's marvelous and eerie _An Angry Blade,_ which I love on a level that is probably unhealthy and calls for professional intervention. 
> 
> This is a bit AU, maybe? I'm not sure visible hellhounds and Azazel in plaid pyjama pants can really mesh all that well with canon, no matter how hard I nudge at Lucifer's comment that Sam's had demons around him all his life. But. The idea of demons acknowledging Sam at the winter solstice stuck in my head a week ago and would. not. go away, so here we are.
> 
> Also not sure if the creepy factor comes across at all well, or if Sam sounds at all like Sam; all feedback, positive and negative, will be welcomed with cheers and dances.

**December 1995**

The school bus pulled away in a splash of half-melted snow and road salt, leaving Sam alone in the gathering dark.

Tall pines, their branches low and heavy with snow, were crowded in close around the last stop on the afternoon bus route, four miles outside of town and a stone’s throw south from the turnoff to the particularly, _epically_ shitty trailer park he’d been calling home for the past three weeks. It was barely four o’clock in the afternoon, but it was also the winter solstice in northern Maine, and so the light was already fading, the sky grey and only getting greyer; there was supposed to be twelve inches of fresh snow before morning. The old gas station across the street had clearly closed up early—windows dark, lot empty—and the faded sign proclaiming the place to be _Phil’s Fill-Up_ was creaking with the wind. As the rattle of the bus engine faded around a curve, the _reeeeek . . . reeeeeek_ of its old wood and rusted iron seemed suddenly like the only sound in all the world.

Heart-sore and tired to the bone, Sam ducked his head against the wind and tried not to let himself dwell on the eerie loneliness of the place, just shrugged his old book bag into a more comfortable position on his back and slogged up the road a little through the ankle-deep slush on the shoulder and headed in to Black Pine Mobiles (A Proud Mobile Home Community Since 1964). It probably had been nice enough back in the sixties, he supposed, but three decades later it was the sort of place that looked like it might be showing up on _Cops_ any day now, and the single pathetic string of Christmas lights blinking around the sign somehow only made everything look even more tired and worn-down and sad. The place John had rented was at the back corner of the lot, off the very end of the narrow, sullenly plowed main road, and Sam trudged past empty rusted trailer after empty rusted trailer on his way. Not a lot of people lived here anymore, and the few who did were mostly clustered in three cozy rows on the opposite edge of the park, close to the office and the laundry room and on the other side of the forbidding line of pines that cut the park in two. Sam had been telling himself for the past week that this was a good thing—that he _liked_ the quiet, that it made it easier to study, that over here he didn’t have to deal so often with creepy Mr. McGill, who always seemed to be around whenever Sam went over to do laundry or to grab a Snickers bar. But this afternoon he was pretty sure he would have given his left arm to see a light on in any of these black blank windows, just to know that he wasn’t alone. Dean had been gone in the northern wilderness for two weeks, off the grid and out of cell range as he hunted a nest of shamblers with Eben, and John had taken off five days ago for some unexpected case in Florida that couldn’t wait, and Sam hadn’t slept well since, curled up in their trailer with a silver knife and a loaded .45 beside his pillow, doors and windows ringed in cats-eye shells and salt, his face tucked against an old sweatshirt that smelled like his brother as he dozed and waited for dawn.

The rush of pine branches in the wind made precisely the same sound as fire catching on bones doused in kerosene, and that made for restless sleeping, alone in the vast and windy dark.

The nights he’d looked out the living room window to find Mr. McGill just standing in the snow and moonlight, looking back, smiling, maybe five feet from the trailer, hadn’t helped.

He was just was an old man, Mr. McGill was, skinny and stooped, with three big dark dogs that looked like wolves, and Sam _knew_ that, he did. Just an old, odd man, more than a little cracked, who wore an old Irish driving cap and red paisley pyjama pants that were always just visible between the ragged hem of his coat and the tops of his heavy boots. Dean, amused, had taken to calling him Crazy Paisley the week before he’d left with Eben, and their dad had been uncharacteristically gentle with him the afternoon he'd sidled up with that creepy, toothless smile to show all three of them a shell he kept in his pocket, to offer them some bits of string and a feather. Sam hadn't wanted to admit, even to his brother, how much the old man scared him, because he was twelve and a half years old and supposed to be a grown-up, and he had no real _reason_ for it, besides, nothing he could put a name to: he'd splashed a little holy water on him once at the washing machines; had tested him with silver and a thorn; had looked at him through an adder stone in sunlight; and nothing. Just a man, just an old, odd, creepy man, but he always . . . he always just seemed so _hungry_ , somehow, whenever he was looking at Sam, and sometimes his greedy, faded eyes glinted yellow when they caught an odd angle of the light. They reminded Sam of a serpent's, and ever since that basement in Tucson he hadn't been fond of snakes.

He tucked his chapped hands into his pockets and tried to walk faster, feet slipping in the ankle-deep slush. He was freezing and he was exhausted, and with thoughts of Mr. McGill clattering around in his skull he was all of a sudden also stupidly, childishly scared—of the cold silence and the space all around him, of the huge looming trees all along the roadside, of the rapidly falling dark. The light was going now, real twilight sweeping in blue off the eastern horizon; his breath and footfalls were the only sound beneath the darkening sky. He hurried around a curve in the road, came up short so fast he nearly fell. His stomach clenched, hard.

Two of Mr. McGill's dogs were standing in the middle of the road, unnaturally still, watching him with disconcerting steadiness through the gloom. ( _They were waiting for you_ , something whispered, in the very back of his mind, though that was stupid, clearly). He could see their breath, smoking white in the still cold air, and his tired eyes and the chancy light did something so odd to their shapes that for half a heartbeat they seemed . . . they seemed—

 _They're just dogs_, Sam told himself, fiercely, because they were. _Pull it together. They're just dogs, just big dumb dogs; you've seen them a dozen times and you and Dean _played_ with them—_

A rustle to his left, and the third was slinking out from beneath the trees, closer, much closer, not more than ten feet away, seven, five. It had something dead in its jaws, and blood was dripping from its muzzle, landing red on the dirty snow. It sank almost to its belly as it crept closer, fawning, and then it was dropping a snowshoe hare at Sam's feet, its throat in ribbons, so fresh a kill Sam could feel the warmth of its dead flesh through his sneaker. As the dog lifted its dark head the other two suddenly threw theirs back and then all three of them were _howling_ , impossibly loud and long and eerie in the falling dusk, and the trinity of sound hammered a heart-deep, bone-deep spike of _cold_ straight through the center of Sam's chest. He caught a sobbing breath that ached in his throat and lungs as the dogs' voices rolled on, echoes ringing through the near-empty park, the bitter twilight, the marrow of his bones, and for half a heartbeat it felt as though something were . . . were _waking_ , somehow, somewhere deep inside of him, one lazy eye opening from a long, dark sleep.

The dogs fell silent, finally, stood staring at him with eerie calm—dark fur and darker eyes and long, lolling tongues. After a moment more they turned and melted, all three, into the shadows of the trees, leaving Sam alone in the middle of the road with death and blood at his feet, and the night rising all around him. He was shaking, badly, for no clear reason he could name— _They're just dogs!_—and couldn't get himself to stop. His breath was short and sharp and hurried, deafening loud in his ears. He stepped around the mangled rabbit, forced himself not to run. There was nothing to run _from_. There had been three black dogs in the snow; that's all, just three black dogs with a dead rabbit, and he was just going to—he was just going to get inside, now; he just needed to get inside, even if inside he'd still be alone, even if nothing were waiting for him there besides a can of Hormel chili and the long silence of a long, long night.

He was so very, very cold.

The sky overhead was the lilac of nighttime in snowy winters by the time he got to the back corner of the lot, and as he turned into the beginning of their row he swore that he could feel his heart actually kick against his ribs. There was a lamp on in their small trailer, bright and steady against the gloom, and an unfamiliar rust bucket of a pick-up truck parked out in front, and Sam would have recognized the jacket tossed over the chair just inside the living room window anywhere in the world.

 _Dean_.

He lurched forward, slipped, landed hard on his knee; scrambled to his feet and slid and hurried the rest of the way, got the door open, ducked inside. The first thing he saw was what looked like a half dead shrub in a paint bucket, ringed with cheap flickering lights and standing vigil over a small package wrapped neatly in newspaper and twine; it took him a moment to recognize it as something that was possibly supposed to be a Christmas tree. The second was Dean ( _Dean Dean DeanDeanDean_ ), safe and whole and _here_ , stretched out comfortably on the couch with their old down blanket pulled up over him against the chill, a bowl of popcorn beside him on the floor and two thin pillows stuffed beneath his head, and the light from the TV and the space heater flickering gently across his face. He looked around as Sam came in, and smiled, and all the color and warmth seemed to come back into the world at once.

‘Heya, Sammy,’ he said.

Sam didn’t stop to think, didn’t stop to breathe, just dropped his bag and shrugged off his coat and toed off his sopping shoes and socks and then crossed the room and crawled under the blanket and onto Dean and over Dean to tuck himself into the narrow space between Dean and the back of the couch, ending up half on the cushions and half on top of his brother, curling in close. Dean startled, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t push _Sam_ away, just let him wrap himself right around him, all cold skinny arms and legs, and Sam pushed his face into his brother’s chest like a little kid and swallowed against the hot knot tightening in his throat, because he was twelve and a half years old and supposed to be a grown-up, and there was no excuse for tears anymore unless someone were dying.

‘Whoa, whoa. Hey,’ Dean said, softly. He smelled like their cheap detergent and no-name soap and . . . and _Dean_ , and he was _here_ , he was right here, one big hand coming up to cup the back of Sam’s head. ‘Hey, little brother. What—’

Sam swallowed. He breathed. He was not going to cry. He _was not_ , except for how his lashes were already wet and his narrow shoulders were trembling and he couldn’t get them to stop.

 _‘Sam._ Jesus. Sammy. Hey.’ Dean was trying to lift him, trying to get him to look at him; Sam shook his head and burrowed in, and after a minute Dean stopped trying to shift him, just pet him anxiously where he was tucked up against him, strong hands stroking through his hair, rubbing along his spine, his ribs, tense with worry. ‘Hey,’ he said softly, pleadingly. ‘Sammy, c’mon, kiddo, you gotta talk to me, okay? Are you hurt? Huh? Did—’

Sam shook his head again, took a ragged breath, almost succeeded in steadying his voice before he spoke. ‘I’m fine,’ he managed, because he was, really, and because _You were gone and Dad was gone and I’ve been lonely and scared and afraid of an old man in his pyjamas, and also today there were three dogs and a dead rabbit_ sounded stupid. And he didn't want to sound stupid, not in front of Dean. He scrubbed his damp cheek against his brother’s shirt. ‘I’m fine, really; I just . . . I just had a bad day.' _Couple of days. Six days. Fourteen._ 'And I didn't know you were back and I'm . . . I'm just really glad you're home.'

That had sounded significantly less childish in his brain, it really had, and he half-expected Dean to tease him for it, but his brother just relaxed a little beneath and beside him, one hand in Sam's hair and the other still warm and restless on his back, rubbing idly between his shoulder blades, familiar callouses scraping softly along his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. 'Yeah, well. Makes two of us, kiddo,' he said. His mouth was warm against Sam's scalp. 'Hunt wasn't so bad, really, but you ever try sleepin' in a tent with Eben? Snores like a freakin' grizzly, and his _gas_ , Jesus. 'S worse than Dad's. Do not let ever that man eat beans around you, Sammy; I'm serious.'

The laugh that caught in Sam's throat was muffled and watery, but it was real, all the same, because Dean was six feet of slim solid warmth pressed against him, and the eerie panic of the afternoon and the loneliness of the past week was already starting to fade, slowly, beneath the sound of his brother's voice, the smell of his skin, the feel of his arms wrapped around him. Sam could feel his own muscles shaking, just a little, shoulders to heels, as a week’s worth of tension started bleeding out of them all at once.

Dean's hand carded gently through his tangled hair. 

'This day you had,' he said, quietly. 'You wanna tell me?'

Sam shook his head, tightened his fingers where they were fisted in Dean's tee. 'Can I.' He swallowed. 'Can I just.'

The easy pressure of Dean's hand, sliding from his hair to cup the back of his neck, reassuring and familiar, was answer enough. Sam closed his eyes, curled a little closer. Most of the time he hated how small he still was, how easy it was for Dean to pin him when they sparred together and then grin down at him, eyes teasing and bright, but he was stupidly, pathetically grateful for it today, for being able to just cuddle into the familiar warmth of Dean’s long body. And Dean wasn’t going to make him move, he realized. Dean was just going to let him lie right here half on top of him like a little kid, was going to let him tuck his still-cold face into the warm crook of his neck and just breathe him in; and Sam wondered, with a kind of idle desperation, what chance he’d ever had at not falling in love with him, because Dean was beautiful and brave, and the only person who loved him in the world.

His brother's breath and heartbeat were steady and slow, the TV a warm, comforting buzz in the background. Five minutes later Sam was asleep, soundly, for the first time in days.


	2. Chapter 2

_Aooooooooooooooo . . ._

Sam woke to the memory of Mr. McGill’s dogs howling, cold and long and clear. He’d been dreaming of them, he realized muzzily, except that in the dream he’d been older, and they’d brought him something much bigger than a rabbit ( _green eyes it had had green eyes Dean's eyes why did it have Dean's eyes_), and the sky had been—had been—

The memory slipped away like smoke, and he didn’t try to get it back. It was pitch-black outside, and he was alone on the couch, but he was swaddled firmly in their old blanket like he was still a little kid, three years old and sick and watching cartoons in a motel bed, and despite the lingering uneasiness of his dream he felt safe and warm and content. Dean had tucked his cold feet into warm socks at some point and moved the space heater right up next to the couch; Sam burrowed a little deeper into his snug nest, just for a minute, enjoying the impossible warmth. He could hear Dean moving around their small kitchenette, and there was the scent of something delicious and familiar on the stove. His stomach rumbled in an unsubtle, unhappy reminder that he hadn’t eaten much since breakfast.

‘Hey, Sleepin’ Beauty,’ Dean said, as Sam shuffled up beside him, bleary-eyed, skinny arms wrapped around his ribs. His nose hadn’t fooled him: there were onion and garlic skins on the counter, along with two empty cans of crushed tomatoes and one of green olives, and Dean was tipping a fry pan’s worth of browned beef into the sauce already simmering on the cooktop. Ziti was cooking beside it, and it was—the kitchen was cold with the winter chill seeping in through the seams, but summer was blooming suddenly in Sam’s chest, warm and sweet and golden, because they hadn’t—they hadn’t _had_ any of this; last week John had stocked him up only on peanut butter and bread and eggs and too many cans of Hormel chili, which meant that Dean had gone out for it, even though he had to be tired and the roads were crap and the nearest grocery store a good fifteen minute drive away, and Sam loved him for it so much it hurt.

He knocked a gentle elbow into his brother’s ribs. ‘Thanks,’ he said, softly.

Dean shrugged. ‘Needed some gas for that crappy pick-up anyway,’ he replied, blithe and easy, as though noodles-and-meat-sauce hadn’t been his weapon of choice against Sam feeling crappy ever since Bobby had first announced that a ten-year-old who could be trusted with a double-barrel shotgun had nothing to fear from a stovetop, and had started teaching Dean to cook. ‘Get cleaned up and find us somethin’ to watch on TV, okay?’ he said. ‘We got like T-minus ten minutes to food, man.’

Sam shuffled into their cold bathroom and then into their colder room, where he shucked off his school clothes and piled into what passed for pyjamas—double socks and old sweatpants, two long-sleeve tees and one of Dean’s old hoodies—and went back out to his brother. By then the warm, comforting smells of tomatoes and herbs and hamburger had filled their small trailer entirely, and the little window above the cooktop was steamy with the heat coming off the boiling water beneath it. With both burners going, it was almost cozy in the tiny kitchenette, where Dean was finishing up a poor man’s version of garlic bread involving butter, garlic salt, Saltines, and the toaster oven, and in the living room the lamp and TV were on and the space heater was glowing bravely and the lights on their scraggly, ridiculous tree were doing their best to twinkle. Warm butterflies took up residence in Sam's stomach, behind his ribs. Cramped and run-down though the place may have been, it felt . . . it felt like a _home,_ suddenly, and Sam had never understood how Dean did that, how he made anything he touched warmer, better, brighter, as though he were filled with light.

He remembered the story Bobby had told him of Mithras, once, who burned so brightly that even the sun had knelt at his feet. _Like Dean,_ he'd chirped happily, with all of an eight-year-old's certainty, and could still remember the way his brother had flushed, and Bobby had smiled. 

'Dude, you can space out in front of the tree later, okay?' Dean called from behind him. ' _TV_ , Sammy. Important task. We're not watchin' _Dateline,_ or whatever the hell's on right now. C'mon. Focus.'

Sam attempted a scowl over his shoulder, was met by Dean's grin and ridiculous eyebrow waggle in return, and ducked his head against a reluctant smile as he went for the remote. Amid several channels of world news and _Jeopardy!_ and static and snow he found a marathon of _M*A*S*H_ reruns (which his brother greeted with a happy _whoop_ ), and then he folded their blanket into a quasi-cushion on the floor in front of the couch, came into the kitchen to grab a Coke and one of their father's beers and some paper towels and two of the battered forks they owned, ferried them into the living room, hurried back to rummage out the Styrofoam plates from the bag of supplies John had left him with.

‘Grab the cheese?’ Dean said, from where he was draining noodles at the sink, and Sam got the green plastic container from the fridge, tucked it beneath one arm so that he could hold their plates as Dean filled them, let Dean take them when he was done. He picked up the toaster oven tray of garlicky crackers and followed him over to the TV, leaving the light on behind him.

'Supper of champions, Sammy,' Dean announced, as they settled down cross-legged on the floor, close to the heater with their backs against the couch, knees bumping companionably together, and Sam happily dumped clouds of cheap parmesan over both their plates while Dean popped the tab on his Coors and the soda. Knocking his can against Sam's with great ceremony, he took a long slug of beer, burped contentedly, and then set the can down beside him and tucked into his noodles. ‘Jesus, it’s good to be home,’ he sighed.

Sam fiddled with his fork for a minute. ‘Yeah?’ he asked, hesitantly.

Dean looked over at him. His face gentled a little, just around his eyes, the way it did sometimes when he was watching Sam and didn’t think Sam knew. ‘Yeah, little brother,’ he said, softly, and his smile warmed Sam through to his bones.

***

It was after supper when Dean asked if Sam knew when their father was getting back from the library or the town hall or wherever it was he was currently keeping himself, because he was going to toss the rest of the noodles into the rest of the sauce and leave it on low if John were coming back soon, tuck everything into the fridge and let him reheat it later if not. Startled, Sam looked up at him from where he was rinsing off their forks and the kitchen knife and the skillet, hands cold and slippery with soap. _Dad didn't call him. He doesn't know._

'He . . . Dean, Dad's in Florida,' he said.

Dean snorted, softly. 'Yeah, he _wishes_ he was in Florida,' he said. ' _I_ wish we were in Florida; it's too freakin' . . .' His voice died, slowly, as Sam just blinked at him and he realized he was serious. 'Sammy, what in the hell are you talkin' about?'

'There was a case.' He hadn't meant for his voice to sound that small; he cleared his throat, tried again. 'Sandpiper, I think? He went down last Saturday, to the Everglades.'

'Last—' Dean stared at him. 'Sammy, are you tellin' me you've been _alone_ up here?'

He looked back down at the fry pan he held and started scrubbing again, hair falling forward into his eyes. 'I'm old enough,' he said, because he was, even if he hadn't acted like it, even if he'd gotten scared. Dean had been _eight_ , for God's sake, when John had started leaving him alone for days on end to look after Sam; Sam had had no one to look after this past week besides himself.

Dean just stood looking at him for a long moment more, mouth white, jaw tight, before he stalked across the trailer and grabbed his coat and shoved his feet into his boots, vicious and precise. Sam's heart clenched, painfully.

'De—'

'Just stay put, kiddo,' he said, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket as he pulled open the door. He hit their father's number on speed dial, had the phone to his ear. 'Finish cleanin' up, okay? I'll be back inside in a minute.'

' _Dean_.'

Dean looked back at him over one shoulder from the open door, the dark spilling in all around him, and visibly got hold of himself. 'Sammy, 's okay,' he said. 'Okay? Everything's fine, little brother. I'm gonna be just outside, just for a— _yeah_ it's me,' he snapped, suddenly, into the phone. 'Dad, what in the—' He closed the door behind him as he went outside into the cold. Sam went to their small window, looked out. It was hard to see with the lights on behind him, but with his wet hands cupped around his eyes like blinders he could just make out Dean, twenty feet away maybe, could hear the angry rise and fall of his voice through the thin metal walls, even if he couldn't make out the words. The snow was starting to fall now in earnest, the wind picking up; it snatched Dean's voice from him in pieces, threw them out into the yawning snowy dark. Sam bit his lip, hard enough to hurt. He wanted him back inside. It was too cold, too dark; Dean was on the other side of the salt lines and he wasn't carrying any iron, and—

Movement caught his eye just across the row, beside one of the old empty trailers, and he saw the familiar silhouette of a coat and boots and Irish driving cap. His stomach twisted, hard and cold, panic inexplicably welling up inside of him again. He was at the door before he ever registered he was moving, yanked it open, had his brother's name on his lips when he saw him already turning irritably back towards their trailer, phone no longer at his ear. Mr. McGill shuffled forward a single step ( _where are his dogs where are his dogs where are his dogs_) but Dean was already at their few stairs, was up their few stairs, was squeezing past him through the narrow doorway and turning to see what his little brother was staring at in the dark.

' . . . dude, is that Crazy Paisley?' Dean asked, and Sam was impossibly glad of the hand that had settled with easy possessiveness on the back of his neck. 'The hell is he doin' over in this part of the park?'

'He, uh.' Sam's voice wasn't entirely steady.

'Sammy?' 

He shook his head. 'It's nothing,' he said. He wanted to close the door; he _did_ , but he couldn't seem to get his hand to work. 'He's just . . . he's been hanging around here a lot, at night. Just . . . just standing there, out in the yard.'

Dean's hand tightened on his neck. With the light behind them and the swirling snow ahead, it was impossible to be sure where the old man was looking, but Sam would have wagered his right arm that Mr. McGill was staring straight at them, at _him_ , and Dean seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, because a heartbeat later he put a hand on the door above Sam's head and pushed it shut, firmly, threw the deadbolt into place with a comforting _click_ , and then leaned to yank the cord of the living room blinds and let them rattle down over the window. 'Well, that's great,' he muttered, voice weary and rich with disgust. ''S all we need, huh? Chester the Molester, standin' out there like a freakin' . . . garden gnome.' 

Sam swallowed. He breathed. 'Yeah,' he managed, in a voice that apparently fooled absolutely no one, because Dean was suddenly turning him around with his hands on his shoulders, was letting them slide up to grip the sides of his neck, lightly, warm and big and comforting, was looking at him with bright, searching eyes, sharp and worried.

'Hey,' he said. 'Sammy, hey.' His thumbs stroked once, gently, along his jawline. 'He been botherin' you this week, little brother? With Dad gone? He try anythin'?'

'What? No. No, he just. . . no, Dean.' He rubbed at his upper arms, chilly. Dredged up a smile for his brother. 'Don't go outside and shoot him or anything, okay? I don't think he's a perv, really; he's just . . . he's just a creepy old guy with . . . with seriously weird dogs.'

Dean was still looking at him, steady and intent, and Sam forgot, sometimes, how much his brother could _see_ , because: 'He why you were so freaked out this afternoon, kiddo?' he asked after a moment, softly. 'Huh? He do something to scare you?'

He shook his head and looked down at his feet, because Mr. McGill _hadn't_ done anything, hadn't even been there, and Sam didn't . . . he didn't know how to explain how creepy the man's dogs had been to his brother, who had just taken down a freakin' shambler in the middle of the wilderness, in winter, and certainly wouldn't have panicked over three big dogs who'd killed Thumper and brought him the corpse.

'Sammy.'

'It wasn't his fault.' He didn't look up at his brother. 'I just . . . I got startled by his dogs. I was really tired and I just . . .'

After several heartbeats of silence Dean blew out a soft, tired curse and tugged him in close, and Sam wrapped his arms around his brother's lean waist and pressed his face into the worn, familiar cotton of his shirt. They stayed that way for a long moment, curled around one another in the bright light of their living room, and listened to the wind rise and rise and rise outside.

'M here now, okay?' Dean said quietly, into his hair, and Sam nodded, silently, against his chest.

Outside, the pines were roaring.

***

Later, after cocoa and a sleeve of Oreos, when he was wrapped in a blanket with his head on Dean's hip, Hawkeye and Igor still on TV, and Dean's hand idle in his hair, Sam said, softly, 'I was okay, you know. When Dad was gone.'

'I know.' Dean rubbed gently at his scalp with a thumb. His voice was tired, and very soft. 'But you shouldn't have had to be.'


	3. Chapter 3

Sam woke, once, past midnight, to the wind wuthering all around the trailer, the sound still like a fire in the dark. He was curled on his side in their one small bedroom, spine to spine with his brother, space heater glowing at the foot of the double bed and every blanket they owned and both their coats piled on top of them. He wasn't entirely certain what had woken him, had a vague, disquieting memory of a dream of yellow eyes and darkness, and a thousand sibilant voices whispering _Hail._

Unsettled, still tired, he turned onto his other side to spoon against Dean's back, burrowed entirely beneath the blankets, tucked his face between his brother's shoulder blades. Wondered if Mr. McGill were still out there in the windy, snowy dark. He couldn't have been, surely. He would have frozen solid, Sam thought, like Jack Nicholson at the end of _The Shining_ , face stiff and white and eyes rolled back in his skull, and at the thought of it he tucked in a little closer to his brother, wrapped an arm around his waist.

It took him a long while to fall back asleep.


End file.
